These past couple months almost feel like they never even happened. It’s like a dream. A recurring one. I remember it well enough, but it’s still fuzzy around the edges. I feel like I’ve been asleep since last June. Nothing I’ve done was really real or mattered, even though it did and it does.
I suppose that’s what depression is. Sleep walking through life. Sometimes you have nightmares. Sometimes you have beautiful golden dreams—only to realize that they were clouds on the wind. But mostly it’s just dark and grey. And you can never quite pinpoint where you got there or just how long you’ve been there.
Waking up hurts so bad. It is a deep and painful ache that finds its way from your lungs to your fingertips. It is the worst part. But if you remember to stretch your atrophied limbs and walk off the numbness in your hips—you can find the vividity and veritude of waking life. It might not be the golden dream of a sleep walker, but it’s real and awake.